The Amplitude Of Time
by Amy Fortuna
Summary: Maglor has one chance to put everything right again, and he's going to take it.


_"I laugh at what you call dissolution,_

_And I know the amplitude of time."_

The Song of Myself, Walt Whitman

You won't remember this.

I'm sorry, Professor, that it had to happen this way. You couldn't just lend me the machine, knowing what I plan to do with it. You had to resist, say something foolish about preserving the timeline. Oh, child, don't you see? This isn't a timeline worth preserving.

Lucky that this voice still has a trick or two in it. I hope you sleep well, and that you wake to a different world.

I'm going all the way back, if your machine can get me past _Atalante_. I have one chance to undo all the mistakes I made, all the mistakes we all made, forever, and I need to take it. I want to see Russandol's eyes unclouded by grief and fear. I want to see my mother laugh again, and my father's eyes blazing with joy as he invents something beautiful, in those lost days before Darkness fell.

Let's see here. The mechanism looks straightforward enough - all I have to do is set my direction of travel and turn the key.

Time flows around me in ripples. I fade past history like a ghost. Walls and people drift by me, through me, over me, under me. A little while only, it seems, and I am no longer in a city, but in a field, and here I'll sit for years, waiting, caught in this perfect bubble of preservation.

Goodbye to everything. It all goes past like flowing water, a thousand centuries sliding back. Age upon Age ripples past, some longer, some shorter. I have been there for them all, and nothing ever changes. The long defeat is still defeat, and it is still long. The enemies just get more petty, until finally people have nothing to fight but themselves and each other. Once we fought Valar and Maiar, all the Free Peoples together.

I don't even propose to have those days back. I'm going back for one single purpose: to put the Music right, as it should have been. It is right that a musician should do this.

I'm going to kill Morgoth.

I have the blade I've carried all these years, still shining like it was new. It has not seen so much action lately, but I've kept in practice.

The lands change. The seas rush over me, but I am not afraid. I do not feel them. I know that when I finally settle, it will be on the shores of Valinor. I have calculated carefully. It was for this very reason that I cultivated your friendship, Professor, knowing that you of all people had the best shot at actually making the time machine work, and getting me in the right place to end up. There's a reason why I recommended this location to you, after all.

A great wave washes over me. This is the moment I've feared, one of the points of possible failure in my journey back - Eru's intervention. But why should Eru prevent me? If the legends speak true, he will have his favourite wayward son back again, if he'll take him in. I know I cannot truly kill Morgoth, but I can destroy his body, I can leave him howling in the Outer Darkness, I can leave him to the All-Father's tender mercies.

That will suffice.

_Atalante_ passes, backwards, and I breathe a great sigh of relief. Eru Iluvatar smiles on me.

Or perhaps, he does not smile - he simply gives me the chance to undo, like so many other things, the Oath we never should have sworn. We will never have to, if I can make it so.

This is not Arda Unmarred that I am making. I can only go back to events that I can recall, not years long before. The Spring of Arda remains as it was. The March from Cuivenen remains as it was. Instead I am making Arda as it should have been if the Valar had the will to do what was necessary, instead of soft hearts that always forgave one who proved faithless time and again (but strangely when it came to us, they remained hard-hearted. I heard a tale of a journey on the Sea once, and of it made a song that caused all to weep, but Voronwe will do better now, and never know anything other than bliss).

Not so very long now. The Age of Numenor was a few thousand years, but that is nothing compared to what I have been through. And at last I am on dry land again, these plains, this shoreline that I know, that I remember. I wandered on the hills with my harp, just there, when the world was young, before the Trees were cruelly destroyed, my grandfather killed, the Silmarils taken. Before the Oath and the Kinslaying and the Burning of the Ships.

Still the years flow past. The Sun and Moon weave an erratic dance in the sky now, as they did in their early days.

And Laurelin's fruit and Telperion's flower slide back under the horizon for the final (the first) time. Darkness falls.

The time machine slows. Nearly time. Just a few more years.

The Light from the Trees washes over me once more and I straighten up in my seat, I breathe in Light, I wrap it around me like a blanket. This Light I know like I know my father's eyes, like I know Russandol's smile, and the exact shade of my mother's hair.

I bring the machine to a shuddering halt at last. After so long in travel, it stutters to a stop, skipping back a little longer than I intended, a matter of a day or so at most. That makes little difference.

The day I chose to arrive originally was the day that Morgoth was released from his bonds and set free amongst our people, to dreadful consequence. I am one or two days early, so must remain careful to be relatively inconspicuous, lest my errand is discovered.

There is only one place I find my steps heading toward - my childhood home, long remembered and missed. My heart hurts inside me at the sight of it, every tree and flower and even leaf of grass, as dear to me as my harp, or my sword, as precious as any jewels ever made.

And there I am - my younger self, sitting under that tree, amusing little red-haired twins with a song. My heart gives another painful yearning twist - little red-headed twin brothers, little dark-headed twin sons-that-were-not-my-sons! - and my vision blurs with tears.

I want nothing more than to stay, and I cannot. I step back, but my younger self's eyes have caught the movement. He glances up - I glance up, and for the tiniest of seconds our eyes meet. He cannot know me of course, and yet - this I do not remember. The timeline has already changed. May it change further.

I move away quickly, not really looking where I am going, my senses confused, my eyes blinded with tears, and run straight into warm strong arms.

"Kanafinwe!" a well-remembered voice exclaims in some surprise.

"Father," I say, and force myself to look up at him. He holds me away from himself, looking me over carefully. I suddenly become very vividly aware of the fact that my clothes are not exactly the height of Noldorin fashion for this time period and that I have a beard. And I am wearing a sword, instead of carrying a harp, and in fact must look completely alien.

But in spite of that, he knows me. He gives me a puzzled, searching look, and then our eyes meet, and somehow he can read at least part of my story in them, if only very vaguely.

"You have some purpose here," he says, almost a question, but not quite.

"To put the world to rights," I answer. "Please do not ask, I can speak no more of it."

He nods, accepting. My father may have had his faults, there's no denying it, but he never failed to be loyal to us as we were to him, and that loyalty holds, even across a thousand centuries.

"I've missed you so," I can't help but say, before he releases me from the grip he has on my shoulders. A look of shock and surprise crosses his face.

"Where was I that you missed me? Where were you...?" he begins to say, and then catches himself, letting me go. "No, you said do not ask."

"That question I will answer," I say, drawing back, pulling myself up to my full height. The tears are gone now, and my confidence has returned. "You were in the Halls of Mandos, and so will you be until the end of Arda, unless I accomplish the deed I set out to do."

He gives me a thoughtful look. "Then, my son, may good fortune attend you."

"One more thing," I say, unable to prevent myself from giving some kind of warning, some sort of advice. If I fail, I will fall, and there will be no returning from such a fall. I have unwound my life to the very end. But even if I fall, I can still, perhaps, save some small measure of grief to the ones I love. Yet this is a hard deed, to tell one's own father his mistakes and failings. He listens attentively, though, so I go on. "Be reconciled with Nolofinwe. Half-brothers in blood you may be, but brothers you are. You will find that he is more than willing to hear you, and to follow where you lead, even as I always followed Russandol."

He gives me another thoughtful look. "Your words are strange and unexpected," he says at last, carefully.

"I would not say these words if matters of great import did not hang in the balance," I reply, putting a hand on his shoulder. He appears to me so young, so very young. I have come at the right time; he still questions himself, still believes in the good of Valinor. Maybe someday he will go to Middle-earth even so, but he will not go to his death only.

He considers these words for a moment, then moves onto another train of thought. "Do you need anything?" he asks. "Food, shelter, forgecraft, a pair of hands beside you in the deed you must do?"

Ah, my father and our family loyalty. It holds true indeed. I smile in the joy of it, basking for a moment in the warmth of my father's love and care.

"The deed I would do is one only I can do," I say. "But I would be grateful for food and a night's shelter." He looks slightly confused at my word for 'night', as that word did not exist under the Trees. "Until Laurelin shines once more," I correct myself, and he nods.

"And in secrecy I would suspect as well," he says. "Russandol is away in Tirion just now, so his room is free if you wish it."

Russandol. I can picture him perfectly as he must look now, and a lump rises in my throat when I think of the contrast between the fair bright face of my older brother as he now exists and the broken shell, tormented in thought and body almost beyond recognition, who threw himself and a Silmaril into a fiery chasm. I'm doing this for him as much - or even more so - as I am for the rest of the world. Unable to speak, I nod.

Father sees the look of utter grief come over my face at the mention of Russandol's name, and moves forward, embracing me. It is the comfort that I need, the only thing that keeps me from breaking down now.

"Come with me," he says after a moment. He takes my hand and leads me to the house, all in silence.

It is surprisingly empty. Mother must be away - I know the relationship between her and my father is somewhat troubled these days. If all goes well, that is something they will have to fix themselves.

Russandol's room looks as I remember it, neat and orderly, everything in its place, so unlike the artist's chaos I always favoured. My brother always was skilled at everything he turned his hand to, from scholarly study to forgecraft to art (save music), and his decorations and books reflect his varied interests.

Left alone, I wander around for a while in the room, just for the pleasure of touching things that belonged to Russandol once, long ago. At last I unbuckle my sword, putting it aside, settle down on the bed, and breathe in for a moment the smell of the spicy, gingery perfume he favoured, on his pillow. Memories recalled by scent are often the most vivid, and I spend some time drifting, remembering incidents from our lives, flowing over me like waves of mingled joy and grief.

A slight noise at the door catches my attention, I turn, expecting to see Father, but instead I see my younger self, peering in curiously.

"Who are you?" he says. "You look so much like me." He comes in, and sit down at the foot of the bed, opposite where I am seated against the pillows.

"I am Maglor," I say, hoping that the unfamiliar name will deceive him.

"That's a strange name," he says. "And you're wearing very strange clothes."

"Well, I am from a strange land," I say. "But of my errand I cannot speak, so do not ask."

He raises an eyebrow and I recall the movement vividly. "Yet I do love a strange tale so," he says with a familiar quirk of a smile. "Would you not like to be in a song, stranger? I'm told I write and play a fair one."

"I have been in enough songs, little one," I say amusedly, unable to resist giving my younger self a hint, "and most of them were lamentations."

"I think I can make a song out of even that, fair lamenting stranger," he says with a laugh. "Thank you for whetting my curiosity, Maglor, I'll leave you now if you wish." He stands up, moving toward the door.

"Wait," I say, and he pauses, turns again toward me. I speak dramatically and slowly - desperate to give a warning, again, a hint, again, just in case - "Do not ever swear an Oath, for it will turn and pursue you to world's end and heartbreak. This have I learned through years uncounted."

The smile that spreads across the face of my younger self is sheer songwriter's bliss. "Oh, I can definitely work with that," he says, gleeful, taking my dramatic tone as permission to extrapolate all kinds of fantastic details. It will suffice. I bow my head in acknowledgement and he slips out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

I drift back into reverie then, leaning back against Russandol's pillows, as the Light shifts and changes. The Mingling is nearly done when I come back to myself, to find Father sitting beside me on the bed, his hand resting gently over my clenched fist. I wonder what it was that I was dreaming to make me so tense, but it could be any number of things, and not least the deed I will have to do on the morrow. Deliberately, I relax my hand.

"I bring food and drink," he says with a gesture to a nearby table. "But look at you, Kanafinwe. I know you bade me not ask, but I am keen to know how you came back to us from the future."

"I cannot answer that," I say. "This secret I must keep, I am sorry, Father. But it would be of little use to you in any case." Success or failure that I may be, I have already changed the timeline by coming here, and I have a few days' grace to do what I need to do, before both myself and the machine that brought me here are swept out of existence by the changing tides of time, even as a great work of art drawn in sand will be swept away by the waves.

"Very well," he says, tilting his head slightly as he nods. "Is there anything more you need or desire?"

I look at him. "Yes," I say fiercely, the word torn from me, and hold out my arms. He climbs across to me and hugs me close, his hand stroking my hair. I bury my face in his chest as I did when I was a child and his arms were the safest place I could be.

"Oh my son," he breathes. "What cruel fate was yours? And what part did I play in it?" He is not really seeking an answer, more searching in himself for his own faults, so I remain silent, my face hidden, soaking up comfort like a sponge.

After a long moment, he leans down and kisses my forehead gently, like a blessing, and then carefully we draw apart. There is a frown of worry on his face, but I feel much better.

"I will depart early," I say.

"Will I not see you again?" he asks.

I breathe in. "If you wish to see me again, look at the grass, feel the wind, behold the Trees and stars. If you wish to embrace me, embrace your sons and your wife and your brothers. I am but dust in the breeze, a untranslatable sound in the distance. If you wish to hear my voice, listen well to the tales told of tomorrow's deeds." I look up, at the corner of the room, overwhelmed with longing for my own dissolution. "It will be a great song. I that I am will never hear it. I that I will be will write it and live it."

"You go to your death," he says.

I smile. "No. Far better. I go to my unmaking. To my rebirth, in the form of the young singer under your roof. He is Kanafinwe. I am a ghost."

I sleep but little. All of the future-past surges through me, it seems, now the last preserver of what was and shall never be. Early indeed I rise, silver light spreading out over the land, take the food that I did not eat before, and make my way out of the house, out of my father's lands, ever proceeding toward Valmar.

This is the best opportunity, the soldier in me knows. He will be bound and weaponless. Still capable of great power, yes, and there is also great risk that the rest of the Valar may step in or prevent me from doing what needs to be done.

But I have my songs and my sword, and I have untameable fire and will within me. I am my father's son, and not for nothing was he known as the Spirit of Fire.

It is still a long journey to the Gates of Valmar and I walk quickly and quietly, carefully to avoid roads and cities where I can. Laurelin's light is full bright by the time I reach the spot where history will collapse entirely, and I slip in amongst the crowds, my sword concealed in a long cloak of Russandol's, taken from his closet. It, too, smells of him, and I take comfort in that. I will never see him again - for he will not be here today - but I can almost feel his presence here anyway.

My hands are cold as I wait. Time passes as the Valar gather, as Morgoth, bound, is brought out by Tulkas and Mandos between them.

I look around, and I see no face that I know. All watching are quiet, waiting. Morgoth goes to his knees as Tulkas steps away. I can feel his envy and hatred burning in him, and I wonder that the whole crowd cannot sense it, that the Valar cannot see it. I have waited lifetimes for this moment.

I step from the crowd, flinging the cloak off, drawing my sword, and raising it to the golden sky.

And the song rushes to my lips even then. I had not known I would sing and it is only as I begin that I know it could have been no other way.

It is part _Noldolante_, parts of every song I have ever made or sung. It is a tale of grief and woe lasting a thousand centuries. Morgoth struggles in his bonds as I step forward, still singing.

Tulkas stands aside, not defending Morgoth, nor stepping to my aid either. Mandos is grim - but then he is always grim. Nienna's tears flow, and she reaches out a hand, to which of us I do not know.

Manwe and Varda are pale and silent, there in the golden light. I am burning now in my own light, I can see myself reflected in their eyes as a white flame. My time is almost done.

I look at Morgoth in his bonds, and my song ceases.

"Black Enemy of the World, I name you," I say, clear and loud and calm.

He is much taller and stronger than I am, but he is bound, and more than physically. If I separate him here from his body, he will not be able to take another physical form.

At last I touch him. With the point of my sword I push him down on the ground, and stand over him. There is fear in his eyes, and vicious, burning, hatred. He says nothing. It is past the time for words from him, and he knows this, knew it from the moment I began to sing.

"In the name of all who have suffered because of your deeds, I wipe them out," I say, my voice ringing. There is still nothing but my voice to be heard. All birds have ceased singing, even the wind holds its breath.

I raise my sword to the sky once more, and with all my force bring it down, plunge it into his chest, pierce his heart.

We both gasp as we are dissolved from Time and fade into the Dark. Around us all have leaped to their feet in amazement, some in joy, others in terror.

The world is changed utterly. What has been can now never be.

My task is all but done. Morgoth still exists, a formless spirit beside me - I also, a formless spirit, fading now - and I pull with all my strength at him, all the darkness within me rising. I too deserve the Outer Darkness, and I will take him there by main force if I must.

The Walls of Night are porous to me, and we spill through them, into the Void. We are empty, and alone, and will ever be.

I laugh, long and long.


End file.
